


Shadows of Andoral

by XatAdaar



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Established Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, It hurts a lot but it's worth it probably, M/M, Not Shippy, Polyamory, Slavery, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-17 18:03:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4676144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XatAdaar/pseuds/XatAdaar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The siege of Adamant has taken its toll on everyone, but the Inquisitor seems especially troubled in its aftermath.  The whisperings of the Nightmare demon in the Fade, combined with the loss of hundreds of soldiers and Wardens, Hawke and Clarel among them, have settled deep into Yaanos' bones.  The man most known for his kindness and warmth becomes distant and cold, and the entire Inquisition begins to flounder as its leader grows restless and silent.  </p><p>Fear has taken root deep inside him, and when it blossoms into something else the rest of the Inquisition must step up to grapple with the consequences.  Escaping the darkness of the Inquisitor's past may prove more difficult than his companions could have ever predicted - after all, the brightest lights often cast the longest shadows.</p><p>Character study/angstfest for my inquisitor Yaanos Adaar, set post- Adamant, pre- Temple of Mythal.  Established (if somewhat uneasy) poly relationship between Yaanos, Dorian, and Samson plays a key role here, but is not the focus of the piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"He's just not the same lately."

"It's downright _eerie_."

"I'm telling you, it's because of those damned wardens and their fool meddling. Demons, archdemons, blood sacrifices... Who knows what they might've done to him?"

"Hush now, you don't know that."

"I'm only saying, ever since that mess at Adamant, the Inquisitor's been so--"

"That will be quite enough." A soft voice cut through the conspiratorial whispers, the tone pleasant enough on the surface but sharp as a dagger beneath. The lady ambassador fixed the muttering traders with a pointed stare, her courteous smile painted onto her face as expertly as ever as she shifted her noteboard a few inches. The candle stub situated atop the papers cast her lovely face into stark relief, the light throwing shadows that made her sweet smile somehow sinister. "Surely you have been taught that gossiping is terribly rude."

The merchants had grace enough to look thoroughly abashed, murmuring sheepish apologies and bowing their heads slightly before seeming to recall pressing obligations elsewhere and beating a hasty retreat from the main hall, scraping away awkwardly under Lady Montilyet's cool gaze.

Once they were out of sight, Josephine shook her head slightly and allowed herself an exasperated sigh. These whispered rumors wouldn't be nearly so troublesome if they weren't grounded in reason - Inquisitor Adaar _had_ been acting strangely of late, and it was beginning to take a toll on the Inquisition itself, one that wasn't going unnoticed.

Josephine's smile slipped away entirely as she turned to gaze at the immense throne at the far end of the hall. It wasn't unusual to see it empty, as passing judgment was easily the Inquisitor's least favorite of his responsibilities, but the towering seat had been unoccupied for entirely too long. For the first time, Skyhold's dungeons were threatening to run out of room. Between the newest group of captured red templars and the usual assortment of thieves that had made trouble amongst the pilgrims and soldiers in the valley below, the cells were fit to burst with all manner of prisoners needing judgment. Even with Samson's cell unoccupied, there still wasn't enough room, and soon they would need to start assigning multiple captives to a cell.

And then there was the matter of Livius Erimond, the Venatori agent whose scheming and manipulation had directly led to the deaths of hundreds and to the Inquisitor's second unwilling journey into the Fade. Yaanos had unequivocally refused to pass judgment on him despite repeated urgings from his advisors, claiming that he was in no state of mind to make a reasonable decision on the matter.

"Just let him rot," he had muttered the last time Leliana broached the topic at a war table meeting, and that had been enough to stun all three advisors into silence. Such callousness from the Inquisitor was unheard of until now, and it was a jarring contrast to the kindness and unflinching dedication to compassion he usually displayed. He had apologized within moments, grinding his palms into his eyes with a weary sigh and begging their indulgence, but none of them had spoken a word about the magister since.

Something was indeed different about the Inquisitor, but he seemed to have no interest in discussing the matter. Each of the advisors had tried to probe, in their way - Cullen with his stumbling attempts at tactful questions that still wound up being blunt and direct, Leliana with her clandestine observations of Adaar's daily habits and conversations, and Josephine with inquiries that were polite but pointed, driving at deeper issues through seemingly inocuous lines of questioning.

They'd only managed to uncover what had been obvious to everyone from the beginning - that Yaanos' bizarre behavior had indeed begun after the siege of Adamant fortress almost two weeks prior. It was clear that the loss of so many inquisition soldiers weighed heavily on the qunari - the man felt the loss of each and every soldier, regardless of how well he'd known them, and they had lost hundreds in the fierce struggle to breach the walls of the Gray Warden fortress. Moreover, Varric had been distraught upon hearing of Hawke's fate, and Josephine knew only too well that Yaanos would blame himself for that loss, as well.

The siege of Adamant had been about more than the battle itself, though. They had heard what had happened from the others who had been thrust into the Fade alongside him, but the Inquisitor himself remained tight-lipped when questioned about the events of that night. There had been a tremendous demon, Cassandra had said, and a vision of someone that looked like the Divine, and they had been forced to leave Hawke behind, but the rest of the story was muddled, as the memory seemed to differ slightly from companion to companion, and all seemed distinctly uncomfortable to discuss it at any length.

Still, this was more than mere discomfort - the qunari seemed truly disturbed, haunted and harrowed after whatever it was that he'd seen, and for once did not seek solace in the company of his men, or of his trusted inner circle. He had even begun to draw away from his lovers, if Cullen's secondhand report was to be believed - evidently, Samson had been venting his frustrations during one of their training sessions, and Dorian had been no less agitated during their weekly chess match.

Somehow, Cole had been the only one who'd managed to worm his way into the Inquisitor's presence for any extended period of time, bringing him pilfered pastries from the kitchens and occasionally one of the assortment of small animals he'd found wandering around Skyhold. Even so, the young rogue had been having less success lately, as he'd confided to Josephine in a hushed, deeply troubled whisper.

"It feels like he's slipping, sliding, slowly..." he'd murmured, pale eyes wide beneath that unruly mop of straw-blonde hair as he searched for the words. "He's afraid of falling, but more of failing, and he's too scared to notice that he's starting to fade away."

They were losing the Inquisitor to a foe they could neither see nor understand, and there was little they could do to stop it. The halls of Skyhold seemed a little darker as Josephine turned away from the raised dais and strode toward the gardens, intending to pay a visit to the tiny sept just off the courtyard.

"Andraste preserve us," she whispered, clutching her notes a little closer to her chest. In times such as these, a little prayer was all she could hope to offer. "Maker watch over us all."

As she stepped into the hall leading out to the gardens, the candle atop her noteboard guttered and extinguished, plunging her into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

_"It's your fault, you know."_

Yaanos buried his face in his hands, palms pressing tight against the pronounced ridge of his brow. He screwed his eyes shut and ground his hands into his temples, as though he might be able to physically push back the thoughts that pulsed and pounded through his skull, threatening to split it open.

_"Haven would still stand, were it not for you."_

The clacking of the wooden practice blades drifted through the window of the smithy, but the sound seemed distant, muffled, as though his ears were stuffed with wool.

_"More Inquisition soldiers fall every day, each and every death in your name."_

Beneath him, the soft rush of the bellows pumped on, a slow, predictable pattern that he might ordinarily find soothing.

_"Samson sits and suffers, and will be consumed by his rage or the red any day now, because of your decision."_

In the distance, he heard a man roaring with laughter, the sound echoed by the soft titters of his companions that followed. The noise chafed against the inside of Yaanos' head, and he grit his teeth.

_"Dorian's ties with his family are hopelessly severed, and it's all your fault. The men you love are suffering and losing themselves, all because of their association with **you.** "_

The mage bent over, elbows digging into his knees as he clutched at his head ever tighter, his fingers brushing against the smooth, waxy skin at the base of his horns.

_"But of course, you already know all this. After all, what can a pitiful, filthy savage like you possibly have to offer? What could you possibly do to help? **Nothing.** "_

The qunari felt the sting of tears beginning to burn behind his eyelids, felt that familiar raw ache in the back of his throat, but he bit back the strangled sob that bubbled up in his chest.

_"Once a slave, always a slave. You play at being something greater - first a mercenary, then a herald, now an inquisitor - but it's all a lie."_

The heavy footfalls and creaking of the stairs went completely unnoticed as Yaanos attempted to curl into himself, to put an end to the seemingly ceaseless repetition of the words that had been echoing around his mind for days.

_"You pride yourself on changing, but you can't change your very nature. In the end, another master will come along and bring you to heel, and you'll bend to their every whim."_

"Holing up here's no way to help that headache, Adaar."

Had the voice been anyone else's, Yaanos may have jumped out of his skin, but that gruff, gravelly tone was as familiar to him as his own name. Slowly, he raised his head from his hands, blinking blearily in the direction of the stairs.

"Take it from me - I know a thing or two about headaches," Samson continued, a wry edge to the words as he settled down on the stool nearest the Inquisitor. He smelled of musk and perspiration and metal - he'd just come in from more training with the new recruits, then. "All this heat and humidity is only gonna make it worse. If you're gonna brood, you ought to do it someplace dark and cool."

Dimly, Yaanos realized that he should have laughed at that, or perhaps at least cracked a smile, but the throbbing ache in his head made it hard to think, and everything but this awful dread seemed to disappear into the gaping emptiness in his gut. He leveled a blank gaze at the human beside him, and saw his cheeky half-smirk slip into a concerned grimace.

"Oi, don't give me that look... Yaanos, I'm not gonna force ya to talk if ya don't want to, but this has gotta stop." Cautiously, Samson placed a hand on the qunari's shoulder. When Yaanos did not pull away, he gave it a solid squeeze and continued in a low voice. "Look, I don't know what all happened at Adamant, and I'm beginnin' to suspect that I don't want to, but you aren't the only one affected by all this."

Yaanos' brow furrowed slightly, and one hand moved to grip his own knee. He knew that he was being irresponsible, knew that he was jeopardizing more than he could truly comprehend the longer he sat around idly, and yet...

"What if I only make it worse?" he asked at last, voice whisper-soft and barely audible over the sound of the forge below. He turned his hands over, resting his forearms on his thighs and gazing listlessly down at his palms. "We've already lost so many, Samson. I've made so many bad decisions, and now--"

"Now you've got to keep goin'," Samson interjected, his voice firm and eyes narrowed slightly in a grim sort of empathy. "It's the only way to make up for the mistakes you've made. It's not easy, but it's what you need to do. You can get past this."

"But what if I _can't_ , Samson?" Yaanos replied, an edge of bitterness to his words as he raised his eyes to meet the human's. "I'm not like you - I was never destined for greatness. For me to have even risen this far... what if it's a mistake? What if all this is proof? I can't do this alone, and if I..."

"Enough o' that," Samson cut in, his words brusquer than he intended as he lightly shook the mage's shoulder. "Any greatness I was ever destined for has already come an' gone, but your star's still risin'. You didn't get this far by worryin' about what you were and weren't fated for, so why should that make a lick of difference now?" When Yaanos did not respond, the human scowled and let his hand drop from that broad shoulder. They sat in silence for a few moments, Samson visibly frustrated but unwilling to push too hard and Yaanos seeming as though he might either break down into tears or launch into a heated diatribe at any moment.

Finally, the human threw his hands up in exasperation and stood, raking a hand through his sweatsoaked hair. "Alright, fine, I'll stop pesterin'. Just... Talk to Dorian at least, yeah? I can handle bein' away from you for a bit - had years of practice - but it's hard on him. You were the one tryin' to get him to open up and get used to you bein' close and bein' obvious, and to pull away on him after that is..." Samson frowned, raising a hand to scratch at the bridge of his nose in a gesture of clear discomfort. "Well, if he's even comin' to _me_ to complain about it, you know it's gettin' to him."

Yaanos nodded numbly, his heart aching dully in his chest as Samson took one final lingering look at him before turning towards the stairs once more. He wanted to apologize, to promise Samson that he would do better, to thank him for his concern and his kindness, to beg him to come back and sit with him a little longer, but he remained silent, staring at his lover's retreating back and feeling another part of him sink into that yawning void inside him.

Clenching his fist, the qunari bit back something that could have been a scream or a sob and pushed himself to his feet. He needed to see Dorian, to set his mind at ease and reassure him as best he could.

At least one of them ought to have some peace of mind.


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh look, a strange qunari's come to hunt me down." As Yaanos climbed the stairs and rounded the corner, Dorian's voice drifted over to him, dripping with sarcasm. As he drew closer, the human snapped the book he held shut with a coy smile playing about his lips as he continued in Tevene. "And to think, I'd _just_ started to miss Tevinter... this place is feeling more and more like home every day."

"Dorian, I'm sorry," Yaanos blurted in their native tongue, his steps heavy and graceless as he moved into the glowing circle of candlelight that marked the nook in Skyhold's library that Dorian had claimed as his own. He knew that Dorian was teasing, but laughter seemed further beyond his capabilities every time he tried to muster it.

"Oh, is that you, Yaanos? You'll forgive me if I've forgotten what you look like," came the mocking reply, one perfectly-sculpted brow quirking as the human set his book aside and rose to his feet. The altus was still smiling, but there was a chill in his words far beyond his usual snark, and it nearly made Yaanos want to retreat back into the shadows.

"I'm sorry," he repeated instead, taking another uncertain step forward and raising a hand to do... something. He forgot his purpose halfway through the gesture, and his hand hung in the air between them uselessly. After a long, silent moment, he hastily snatched it back, curling it into a fist at his side. "I'm not... Things have been strange lately, and I don't know what's happening to me, but please understand..."

"Understand what, exactly? Being forced to wander through the Fade - _physically_ wander around that wretched place - and encounter a tremendously powerful and insidious demon? Being forced to sacrifice someone you'd come to consider a friend to that awful creature, and returning to find that hundreds of soldiers fighting on your behalf had died?" Dorian's words came quickly, as they always did when he was agitated, and he began to gesture grandly to accentuate his point. "How on earth could you not simply bounce back from something like that? Anyone else would've woken early the next morning and volunteered to cook breakfast for all of Skyhold!" As he began to wind down, his voice gave way to a fond exasperation, and he stepped closer to the qunari to rest a hand on his chest.

"Amatus, no one expects you to be perfectly dandy after all that, least of all me. I heard what that monster said to you - no one else could understand him, but I heard it all," he continued, eyes narrowing compassionately as he leaned closer, tilting his face to meet Yaanos' downcast gaze. "It was a foul creature, and it _lied_. To all of us, not just to you." The last sentence pricked of bitterness, but Dorian was careful to keep his voice as soft as he could. "But shutting yourself away from everyone isn't the solution. Let the people around you help, love. Maker knows Samson's been chomping at the bit to hack whatever's bothering you to pieces, and I'd be lying if I said I'm not tempted to let him."

"It's not that easy, it isn't something physical--"

"I know, love. Just a metaphor, that's all," Dorian assured him with a quiet chuckle, the hand on his chest slipping up to gently cup his cheek. "My point is, you don't have to be alone in all this. Samson and I are here for you, and we aren't the only ones that care. But drawing away like this... you aren't the only one it's affecting," he went on, his voice wavering slightly and his fingers tightening just a bit around the curve of Adaar's jaw. "Please, Yaanos. Don't pull away from us."

There was a long silence, and Yaanos wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Dorian and break down. He wanted to allow himself to be comforted, to believe everything Dorian told him and fold himself into his arms and kiss him until he could think of little else. Doing so would certainly ease Dorian's mind, and it might even heal some of the hurt that had wound its way around his own heart.

But that voice kept echoing around his skull, hissing filthy treacherous words ripped right out of the deepest recesses of his mind and made real by the virtue of being spoken. He didn't deserve the solace that Dorian wanted so badly to offer him, and Dorian's gentle words couldn't drown out the terrible whispers that threatened to consume him.

Gritting his teeth, Yaanos gently raised a hand and pressed it against the one Dorian held to his face. "I don't mean to hurt you, amatus. I wish I could do what you're asking, but I can't, and it isn't your fault. You have to know that this isn't because of you, I just--"

Dorian's hand dropped away from his face, and Yaanos looked down at him, stricken. The shorter man's expression was cool as he stepped back, but he couldn't conceal the hurt shining in his eyes. "Of course not. Well then, I'll let you continue on with this... whatever it is you're doing. I certainly hope it works, because Maker knows nothing I suggest is getting through."

"Dorian, please..." Yaanos' voice was strained, but he made no move to follow Dorian as he settled back into his chair, nostrils flaring indignantly as he picked up his book once more.

"Goodnight, Inquisitor. Perhaps some rest will do us both some good." The altus' tone was clipped and curt, and his words cut both of them as he spoke.

"... I'm sorry, amatus."

As he descended the stairs, he could have sworn he heard a distant, "Me, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your kindness! I never expected a non-shippy fic centered on an OC to get more than a few hits, but the support from everyone has been wonderful! 
> 
> The next chapter marks the beginning of the real action - I hope everyone's buckled in and ready, because it's only gonna hurt more from here!


	4. Chapter 4

As a man whose poor decisions had been arguably more influential in his life than his good ones, Dorian had become rather proficient at recognizing when he'd made a mistake. He'd scarcely been awake for ten minutes before persistent pangs of regret began to eat away at him, and after a few long minutes, he flung away the covers with a hissed curse and reached for his trousers.

He knew that he'd been too harsh on Yaanos, and that he ought to have been more patient, but he'd been too consumed by his own pain and his fear for the Inquisitor's wellbeing. Naturally, he'd handled it with his typical grace - which is to say, he'd hidden his anxieties and his hurt behind a veneer of sarcasm and pushed away the man that cared for him like so few others had when he'd clearly been in need. Afterwards, he'd been too stubborn - and, if he was perfectly honest, too embarrassed - to return to Yaanos' quarters.

As such, he'd resigned himself to sleeping in the guest room he'd occupied when they first arrived at Skyhold, and had been forced to huddle under layer after layer of woven quilts and knit blankets to ward off the mountain chill, rather than curling up to the veritable furnace that was his Vashoth lover. As he fastened the buckles on his leather jerkin, Dorian found himself hoping that Samson hadn't been similarly frustrated - the ex-templar wasn't quite as prideful as Dorian, but he certainly had his fair share of pent-up anger and stubbornness. Regardless of the lingering discomfort Dorian felt about welcoming Samson into their relationship, he hated the thought of Yaanos being forced to sleep alone, especially in this state.

Running a comb through his hair and smoothing his moustache into place, Dorian grimaced at himself in the looking glass and agonized for a few seconds before tossing his grooming instruments down and heading towards the main hall, not willing to waste any more time. He rationalized as he walked, figuring that it was early enough that he was unlikely to run into many people, and Yaanos had certainly seen him far more disheveled than this--

As if on cue, a door to his right flew open, and a mousy young rogue nearly bowled him over as he backed out of the hall. Stepping away just in time to avoid being caught in a tangle of limbs and loose, filthy blonde hair, Dorian swallowed the irritated curse that came instantly to his lips in favor of a pointed clearing of his throat.

"Oh - sorry," came the soft response, washed-out rainwater eyes widening as that blonde head whipped to face Dorian, then towards the elf that followed him through the corridor, then back toward Dorian again. "Wait, Dorian, you would-- Have you seen him? I can't-- He was so _loud_ before, hurting but hollow, the pain making echoes inside him, but now--"

"Slow down, Cole," Dorian urged, raising a hand before him as if to steady the young man. "I'd like to help, but I can't follow when you do that... thing, when you jump around like that."

"He is agitated and upset," Solas explained, shutting the door behind them as he emerged into the hall. "That makes it even more difficult for him to follow human thought patterns." He shifted his staff from his right hand to his left and rested some of his weight on it as he watched the two of them in a way that seemed almost appraising.

"I can see that he's upset," Dorian replied, all that indignant frustration he'd been hesitant to unleash upon Cole returning to color his words now. "I'd like to know _why_ , and who exactly it is that he's talking about."

"No," Cole murmured, though it didn't seem as though he were addressing anyone in particular. "You don't know, either - you're looking for him, too. You're afraid, and nervous, and there's guilt there, too, and-- Don't you see, Solas?" And here he rounded on the elf, who raised his shoulders in a light shrug and inclined his head slightly. "Dorian's worried, too. Please, you have to come, something isn't right, it feels like--"

"Alright, Cole," Solas interjected, his tone gentle as he conceded what had apparently been a pitched argument. "I never objected to checking on him, only to doing it _now_ , while he might be..." The elf paused there, and the sideways glance he cast in Dorian's direction was hard to miss. "... Preoccupied. But we will go now, if you wish. I assume Dorian wishes to accompany us?"

Dorian fought back the urge to unleash a vicious stream of choice words about what Solas could do with his assumptions and merely nodded, his acid gaze boring into the back of the elven apostate's shaved head as he turned and followed Cole towards Adaar's chambers. After a pause, Dorian strode along behind them.

This was hardly the way he'd wanted to greet Yaanos again after their spat the night before, but Cole seemed anxious about something, and that made him nervous. While it was true that the peculiar spirit-human hybrid tended to become upset over rather trivial things at times, Dorian knew better than to doubt his intuition, and was not nearly so heartless as to belittle the poor lad's reactions regardless.

Solas, on the other hand... For the first time, Dorian found himself actively wishing that Samson was fucking Yaanos without him, if only to give the presumptuous elf an eyeful of that dreaded "preoccupation" he was so damned concerned about.

Dorian didn't have to wait long to have his half-baked dream crushed, as Samson met them halfway up the stairs to Adaar's room, shirtless with trousers half-fastened and hair mussed from sleep. He was paler than Dorian had ever seen him, and the expression on his face was hard to read beyond the worried furrowing of his thick brows and the grim set of his jaw.

"Apologies, Samson, but I've brought a little audience with me. I hope you don't mind," the Tevinter mage offered with an awkward smile. Before Dorian had even finished his sentence, Cole had bolted up the stairs before them, dodging around Samson and disappearing around the corner. Solas watched him go before turning his gaze to Samson instead and raising one thin brow in a wordless question.

"Somethin's wrong with him, Dorian," Samson muttered, his voice strained and dry.

Immediately, the smile slipped from Dorian's face, and he straightened up, sharing a look with Solas before turning back to the ex-templar. "What do you mean, 'something's wrong'?" he asked, feeling the color begin to drain from his own face.

Without a word, Samson turned and began to jog back up the stairs. Dorian and Solas were hot on his heels, and as they entered the room proper, Dorian felt a sharp ache lance through his chest at the sight that awaited them there.

Yaanos lay there on the bed, flat on his back and wearing a terribly blank expression, and Cole had draped himself over the Vashoth's massive chest, pressing his ear to his heart and visibly shaking as he mumbled words that were barely audible. As all three drew closer to the bed, he could barely begin to make out the boy's frenzied whispers.

"No, no, no, no, no... Please, not again, no, no, _no_ , you have to get out, please..."

"What's wrong with him?" Dorian asked at last, his voice hoarse and oddly foreign to his own ears. He finally managed to tear his gaze from that expressive face gone horribly blank and turned instead to observe Samson.

The look on the older man's face almost made him regret asking.

"I don't have a bloody clue," Samson answered in that low, harsh voice of his, the words fierce and tight as the fist Dorian could see clenching and unclenching at his side. He watched a muscle in the Marcher's jaw work furiously as he explained. "He was already asleep when I came up last night, and now he won't-- I've been trying for an hour now, and no matter what I do, he--" Samson paused, breathing deeply through his nose and swallowing before meeting Dorian's eyes. This time, Dorian could read the look there as clearly as any tome - Samson was _afraid_. "Dorian, he won't wake up."

"Of course he won't," Solas murmured from somewhere off to their left. Both men's eyes snapped to where he stood by the Inquisitor's bedside. His tone was deeply troubled as he raised a hand to lightly rest it against Yaanos' forehead, which was damp with sweat. The elf's eyes drifted shut as he narrowed his focus and continued. "He's trapped."

"Trapped?" Dorian repeated, dread creeping into his stomach like some insidious sort of virus.

"What do you mean, he's trapped?" Samson demanded, taking a step closer to Solas and visibly bristling with indignation at the elf's tone.

Dorian and Samson alike jumped as Cole seemed to materialize between them, eyes wide with abject terror. "He's trapped, held, helpless, he can't get out--"

"Speak plainly, damn you," Samson growled at last, advancing on the rogue and baring his teeth in a snarl, only to be restrained by Dorian's hand on his elbow. "What's happened to him? How is it he's trapped?"

Cole's soft voice shook slightly as he gave them their answer, and Dorian knew that it was not from any fear of Samson.

"He's trapped in the Fade."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised things would actually start this chapter, and here we are! The last chapters are almost definitely going to be longer, so it's probably going to be a little while until they're out.
> 
> Thank you in advance for your patience, and thanks again for all the support!


	5. Chapter 5

"How?" Dorian spluttered, looking from Solas to Cole and back. He could feel the muscles in Samson's arm tensing where he still held him just above the elbow, and tightened his grip slightly both in warning and in a poor attempt at reassurance. "How could he possibly he trapped in the Fade, _again_?"

Solas was silent for a few seconds, turning his gaze to the Inquisitor's smooth, expressionless face before furrowing his brows slightly and turning back to them. "He is under the thrall of a demon - an especially powerful creature of despair, if my guess is correct."

Beside them, Cole wrapped his arms around himself, staring hard at Yaanos as he nodded. "It's very cold," he agreed, chewing at his bottom lip before turning away, curling into himself. Despite his own growing horror at the situation they were faced with, Dorian couldn't suppress a pang of pity for the young man, for he was clearly as distraught about this as any of them.

"Bullshit," Samson swore, the word low and dangerous. "Yaanos would never let himself be possessed by a demon." He leveled his gaze at each of them in turn, as though daring anyone to say differently. When no one did, he continued, turning that angry gaze on Solas alone. "I've seen my fair share of abominations, and they don't look anythin' like this," he added, the venom audible in the words as he spat them in the elf's direction.

Solas did not so much as flinch, and Dorian found himself grudgingly impressed by the elf's composure. He met Samson's gaze for a few tense moments of silence before responding, his voice remarkably calm. "He is not possessed - not yet, at any rate. No one is doubting the Inquisitor's strength, Samson," he assured the ex-templar, who exhaled hard and raked a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at Yaanos.

Slowly, Dorian felt some of the tension begin to drain from Samson as he seemed to belatedly realize exactly how aggressive he was being. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Samson gently pulled his arm free of Dorian's grip and settled onto the edge of the bed. "What exactly _is_ goin' on, then?" he asked at last, still lightly massaging his nose and staring pointedly at the floor. "If he's trapped in the bloody Fade by a demon, but he's not possessed, what d'you call it then?"

Dorian could have sworn he saw the ghost of an amused smile flicker across Solas' face before he reached out to lightly grip Yaanos' left hand and turned it over, resting it palm-up on the qunari's hip. "The Anchor shines like a beacon to the inhabitants of the Fade, and it is only the Inquisitor's remarkable strength of will that keeps at bay those entities that would seek to take advantage of him."

Dorian's eyes widened, and he stared at the elf, aghast. In his peripheral vision, he saw Samson's head snap up, having likely come to the same conclusion that he had. "Are you telling me," Dorian began, his voice tremulous as he locked gazes with Solas. "That Yaanos has demons swarming him at all times, trying to possess him?"

"You know as well as I that demons are fondest of powerful mages," Solas replied, and his voice was contemplative, almost sad. "And he _is_ a powerful mage, one that shines exceptionally bright, impossible to miss and incredibly interesting. Things have almost certainly been this way ever since he obtained the mark. Ordinarily, I would imagine that the Inquisitor is more than capable of fending off demons, but when he is suffering from an abundance of negative emotion, it becomes more difficult. Now, however..." Solas leaned over Yaanos once more, frowning as he looked thoughtfully into that expressionless face. "His resolve has been weakened, his confidence shattered - likely by whatever transpired at Adamant. In his condition, and for a demon as powerful as this, he would be easy prey."

"So, what you're sayin' is that he isn't possessed _yet_ ," Samson clarified, his fingers steepled before him as he stared straight ahead, eyes focusing intently on his fingertips. "But it's just a matter of time until the demon breaks 'im and gets its way."

Solas' answer came softly, and he sounded genuinely sorry to deliver it. "Yes."

The room was silent for the space of several heartbeats as the implication of what Solas was saying hit everyone in the room. Dorian felt his gut churning with guilt and a terrible dread, but it was burned away by the furious determination that flared up inside him.

"We'll need another mage here, maybe two," he announced suddenly with a flare of his nostrils, striding closer to the bed with the brisk air of a man preparing to do something vital but unpleasant. "Cassandra ought to be here, and maybe a healer, but only if absolutely necessary - I make a point of not doing this kind of thing often, but you southerners are so touchy about it that I want as small an audience as possible."

"What're you on about?" Samson asked warily, standing up nonetheless to make room for Dorian to approach Yaanos. "You can't be suggesting--"

"Of course I am," Dorian snapped, head whipping about to stare at Samson almost accusingly. "We need to go in after him, and we need to be fully conscious and in control when we do. More mages will make this easier, but I'm not about to wait around until we can gather up every single mage in all of Skyhold." He unbuckled the straps at his forearms as he spoke, and began pushing up one sleeve before Samson grabbed his wrist, a strange sort of warning flashing in his eyes.

"Don't," the older man insisted in a soft growl, and Dorian was startled to feel the beginnings of a strange prickling where Samson touched him.

" _Really_ , Samson?" Dorian asked incredulously, scoffing in disbelief as he met Samson's intense gaze with his own. "Oh, gallivanting around as the right-hand man of a blighted darkspawn with a pet archdemon's all well and good, but a touch of blood magic? Oh, now we've simply gone too far," he seethed, his words venomous as the inked serpent coiled around his arm.

After a pause, Samson released his wrist with a scowl, looking slightly abashed but still deeply uncomfortable. "Fine, then. Go ahead and add more fuel to the bloody fire - we've already got a Maker-forsaken _beacon_ drawing the demons, so what harm could a few more torches do, eh?"

Dorian pursed his lips and glared at Samson, but before he could concoct a response, Solas interrupted them both with a gesture.

"I can find us a way into the Fade, Dorian - fully conscious and in possession of all our faculties. It will not require blood magic," he assured Samson with a slight tilting of his head. "Only an open mind and a few herbs." Dorian and Samson kept their gazes locked for a few more seconds before finally turning away to look at Solas. The elf's lips twitched slightly into what Dorian supposed was his attempt at a reassuring smile as he continued.

"Give me just a little time to gather what I need, and we can proceed. In the meantime, I believe that Dorian made a fair point - having Cassandra on hand may be wise, and another mage could only help," Solas pointed out, giving each of them a pointed look. Instantly, the worst of the tension within the room seemed to dissipate as Dorian and Samson each rose to their feet, galvanized by having a clear, simple purpose.

"I'll find Cassandra, then," Samson volunteered, plucking a shirt from where it hung on the arm of the couch as he passed. He shoved one arm through a sleeve and tightened the laces on his breeches, then slipped into the other sleeve as he stepped into his boots.

"And I'll wake Vivienne," Dorian decided after a few moments of deliberation. Samson was already on his way down the stairs, and Dorian was close behind him, the furious tension of a few moments prior seemingly forgotten.

If it meant saving Yaanos, even pride like theirs could be no object.

 

  
Within the hour, everyone had reconvened in the Inquisitor's quarters, a hastily-dressed Cassandra and an impeccable Vivienne in tow - all but Cole, that is. No sooner had Dorian turned and asked Solas about the young man's whereabouts than the rogue seemed to materialize at his elbow.

"I never left," Cole insisted, rainwater eyes cast low. "He doesn't know I'm here yet, but he shouldn't be alone."

Dorian swallowed an odd lump in his throat and simply nodded, clapping the young man lightly on the shoulder. "That's very good of you, Cole."

"It's not your fault," Cole replied, turning his gaze up to meet Dorian's. "You don't want him to be alone either, but you didn't leave to hurt him. You think you made him fall, but you didn't." He paused, then continued in that low, breathless voice he always adopted when reaching into someone else's mind. " 'Maker, let me take it back, I'll do anything. If only I'd been more patient...' "

" _Thank you_ , Cole," the mage cut in before the spirit could continue, his voice pitched slightly too high as he forced a smile. "But I think that's enough for now. I know I'm rather hard to ignore, but we're not here for me."

"Don't worry," Cole assured him, turning back to Yaanos. "Samson thinks it's his fault, too."

A prolonged silence followed, in which Samson gave the young rogue a strange, searching look before casting a glance in Dorian's direction. Their eyes met for a long second, and a mutual understanding seemed to pass between them before they turned away.

"If we're finished letting the Inquisitor's pet demon poke around in our heads as it pleases," Vivienne interjected, breaking the silence like a blade through ice as she swept closer to Adaar's bed. Taking in the sight of him there, her face betrayed no emotion, but her tone grew slightly less harsh as she continued. "I believe the Inquisitor would appreciate some haste on our part, my dears. Time is of the essence, so let's not dawdle any longer."

"I agree," Cassandra asserted, her voice forceful and clearly discouraging further discussion. "We must carry on with this, and soon. We cannot afford to lose him, and each second we stand here talking is another second wasted."

"Then by all means, let us begin," Solas chimed in, handing a small bundle to Vivienne and ushering Dorian and Cole towards the bed where Yaanos lay.

Vivienne's nose wrinkled ever so slightly in distaste as she unwrapped the parcel, and she turned her critical gaze onto Solas. "Forgive me, my dear, but how exactly do you propose that I help you enter the Fade with dried herbs?" she asked, the challenge implicit in her words but absent in her tone as she watched the elf circle the bed to sit at the bench at its foot.

"The herbs are for us, Vivienne," he explained calmly as he turned to rest his back against the bedpost. "Cassandra, could you burn them here, close to us?" He gestured towards the brazier situated a few feet from the head of the bed.

"For those of you whose attention will be drawn elsewhere, the herbs will have no effect. For Dorian, Cole, and I, this will allow us to remain focused and cognizant in the Fade." He turned toward Vivienne, who had drawn her staff and already summoned a flickering wisp to enhance her spellpower and sustain her magic reserves. "There are a few draughts of lyrium there, as well, slightly modified - they should help you endure the duration of the casting, and keenly attune you to those under the effects of the herb. Should we fall, you will know of it, and you can warn Cassandra before the demons emerge." Solas spoke softly and without a hint of trepidation, but the impact of his words on the rest of the room was palpable.

"Wonderful," Dorian quipped dryly, climbing into the bed beside Yaanos even as Cole sat against the side, knees tucked up tight against himself.

"Perhaps we should summon a small regiment of Templars," Cassandra suggested, looking uneasy as she crushed the herbs and sprinkled them into the brazier she'd just stoked back to life.

"Over my bloated bloody corpse," Samson growled, rising from the chair he'd drawn up to the Inquisitor's bedside and glowering in the Seeker's direction. "I'm the only Templar that'll be comin' anywhere near him until this is through."

"Samson, I understand your concern," Cassandra began, sounding wary. "But if the worst were to happen, and the Inquisitor were to become an abomination..."

"Then I'll end his suffering myself," came the response, low and certain. Samson made an attempt at a grim smile and raised his greatsword before him, flat end facing Cassandra and Vivienne from the other side of the bed. "I'll give him a quick, clean death, and curse the Maker for every waking moment of my life after it," he swore, his gaze drifting down towards the Vashoth lying expressionless between them. He grit his teeth and tightened his fist around the hilt as his eyes snapped back to hers, blazing with determination. "But I'll only do it once I know for a fact that he's truly gone, and not a second before. I don't trust anyone else to make that decision, 'specially not anyone still bound to the bloody Chantry." His eyes landed on Dorian briefly as he continued, his voice softer. "I'll protect Yaanos an' Dorian both, and if they fail, I'll be the one to strike 'em down."

Cassandra watched him for a few seconds longer, looking as though she planned to argue, but finally set her lips in a hard line and nodded. "Alright," she assented, fingering the pommel of her own sword in its belt for a moment as she shifted to stand a little straighter next to Vivienne. "Then on your neck hang the burden."

The decision seemed to satisfy both of them, and Samson returned her nod and sheathed his blade before dropping himself back into the armchair with a soft grunt. He rested the blade against the side of the bed, then leaned in to brace his elbow on the mattress and extended a hand to grip Adaar's, expression grim but resolved. He shared another look with Dorian, and the message was clear.

_"Bring him back safe, and don't do anything stupid."_

Swallowing hard, Dorian shifted to lay on his back beside Yaanos, entwining his fingers in the Vashoth's other hand as Solas began to murmur something soft and low. He felt himself growing lighter even as his eyelids grew heavy, and the heady scent of Solas' herbs enveloped him, sending his body tingling into numbness even as his mind seemed to sharpen. Gradually, the world around him seemed to shrink until it was only that otherworldly scent, the soothing lull of Solas' voice, and the feel of Yaanos' warmth against his skin.

With the last of his strength, he squeezed Yaanos' fingers in his own, then felt them disappear as he slipped over to the other side of the Veil.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter this time around, because between work, the gym, and Trespasser, my free time is almost nonexistent, but there'll be a much longer chapter coming up next. Shouldn't be too long a wait!
> 
> Thank you again, as always, for your support!

While it never failed to astoud Dorian just how accurately the Fade and its denizens could mimic the sounds of the real world, one thing they never seemed to truly get right was laughter. There was always something off about it, some subtle shifting or eerie echo, as though the sound were reverberating around the hollow space where a heart should have been.

Still, after what must have been an hour wandering about the ghastly, otherworldly landscape of the fade in Solas' wake, Dorian couldn't have been more grateful to hear sounds of life, even as warped and vaguely grotesque as these were. Solas paused, clearly hearing the echoing, tinny laughter as well, then glanced back at Dorian, who nodded and quickened his pace. Cole was inches behind him, steps light and deft even on the uneven, slippery surfaces they traversed here.

Within minutes, the slick, jagged stone and sickly green glow of the ambient Fade gave way to carefully maintained cobblestone and glimmering golden architecture, all bathed in the warm yellow light of specially-engineered glowstones and torches. The buildings they passed now were ancient but remarkably well-preserved, intimidating in their beauty and in their stature, and elegantly-wrought, grim-looking statues towered above them as they weaved through street after empty street in pursuit of the sound they heard.

Dorian was silent as they walked, and Solas turned halfway round as though to ensure that he were still following.

"It's rather unlike you to keep quiet for so long, Dorian. Is this not a captivating sight to you?" Solas asked, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes and in the smile that tugged lightly at his lips.

"I'll always find my home captivating," Dorian murmured in reply, his face darkening. "But I'd rather hoped I wouldn't see it _here_ , of all places."

"This is Tevinter, then?" Solas clarified, raising his brows and casting his gaze around with newfound appreciation. "I have never had the pleasure of seeing it in modern times."

"I'd imagine it wouldn't be much of a pleasure for you, unfortunately," Dorian answered with a grimace, too distracted by something ahead of them to address the elf's peculiar phrasing. Solas frowned at that, seeming to catch Dorian's meaning and turning around once more to see what it was that had caught the human's interest.

"In there," Cole announced, extending a long, lanky arm to point at an elegant three-story building some thirty yards down the road. Three massive marble pillars sat atop a steep flight of stairs, flanking the two intricately-carved doors that marked the entrance. One door was slightly ajar, spilling flickering firelight and raucous, cruel-sounding laughter out into the street.

Without a word, the three broke into a run, making a beeline for the doors.

Cole reached them first, shouldering them open wide without a trace of hesitation. The doors opened into a splendid circular parlor, edged by smaller versions of the tremendous pillars that had stood outside. On each was mounted an intricately crafted self-sustaining candle in the shape of a hissing serpent, a design Dorian recognized as having been quite in demand among Tevene nobility some decade and change ago. The room was positively packed with people - magisters all, Dorian noted with a sour scowl upon seeing the family crests and opulent birthrights so many wore - and all were gathered in a circle around the center of the room.

Cursing, Dorian began weaving his way through the crowd, Solas on his heels and Cole slipping about deftly ahead of him. There had been a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach since he'd realized that the Fade was mimicking the place that he and Yaanos had both called home, and as he broke through to the front of the crowd at last, he found that it had been entirely justified.

A man in his mid-fifties sat upon a raised dais in an ornate chair that seemed to be crafted of some kind of bone. His fine salt-and-pepper hair was swept back into a neat ponytail, his goatee immaculate and well-trimmed, and the glint of veridium at his cufflinks and buttons set off the verdant green of his eyes. He wore robes of darkened samite, outlined at the collar, wrists, and tails with infused vyrantium samite, and a brilliant medallion of serpentstone held his robe closed at his right shoulder. The man was impeccably dressed and completely composed, but his angular face had a subtle cruelty to it, the same kind that Dorian had come to recognize on the faces of most magisters that had been in any kind of power for long.

At his side stood a broad-shouldered qunari, decked out in bits of obsidian armor. He wore breeches of darkened samite, visible through the plated greaves that rose no higher than mid-thigh, but his great gray chest was bare, save for the unwieldy, intricate-looking contraption that sat heavily about his neck and shoulders. The neckpiece was multi-layered and rose high around his throat like a collar, and thick, curved plates extended on either side to wrap about his shoulders like pauldrons, while silverite chains dangled ominously from the front to brush against his chest and abdomen. He wore simple leather sandals and clutched a wicked-looking black staff in one hand, and he stood so still that it was difficult to make out whether or not he was even breathing. One of the magnificent serpentine horns that arced out from the back of his head was decorated with a simple band of silverite, and the other bore an onyx cap on its tip. Most of the qunari's face was completely concealed by a massive pointed obsidian visor inlaid with silver set in the same looping pattern that decorated the badge fastening the magister's robe, but the bottom of his face was visible, exposing the full lips beneath the visor that had been stitched together with a thick, glistening thread that glowed faintly blue.

Even with that mask obscuring his face and the unfamiliar, imposing stance, there was no mistaking who it was that stood before them, bound and motionless.

"It seems that this place was no pleasure for the Inquisitor, either," Solas remarked beside him, voice hushed and fist clenching around his staff as his narrowed eyes fell onto the sight before them.

"He told me that he'd been a slave, but I never..." Dorian found himself unable to continue as his jaw clenched shut and he forced himself to swallow down the sickness he felt rising inside him. All the careless things he'd said, all his defensiveness when the topic of slavery had been broached, and Yaanos had only shaken his head, clenched his fists, and walked away. "Maker, how could I have been such an ignorant _ass_?" he whispered, more to himself than any of the others, blinking hard and hating the way his voice cracked as he spoke.

"I can't hear him," Cole agonized from Dorian's other side, hands clutching at and releasing his own jacket in distress. "I can't hear him! He's trapped, trussed, a prisoner inside himself - _that man's_ prisoner," he amended, his voice dropping low and starting to shake. "I need to kill him, then Yaanos will be free."

"Easy, Cole," Dorian murmured, extending an arm almost reluctantly and pressing it against the rogue's chest to hold him back as he took a threatening step forward. "We need to be cautious - something's not right." He nodded toward the man sitting in the center of the room, his voice steadying into something cold as he continued.

"That man there is Magister Virnus Aeridus," he explained. "And he's been dead for the past eight years."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to give everyone a heads-up that this chapter is what's earned the fic the whole "Graphic depictions of violence" warning - there's some grotesque, detailed gory bits in here, so maybe avoid eating while you read this one. Or, if you're super squeamish, maybe give the end of this chapter a pass.

"The demon is there, and it's hurting him!" Cole protested, hands sinking low to grip the hilts of his daggers as he rapidly shifted his gaze between Dorian and the magister, almost as though he were afraid that he might lose sight of either. "We need to kill it! It's hurting him, and it has to stop!"

"I know, Cole," Solas reassured him softly, slipping over to the rogue's other side to add his hand to Dorian's on the young man's chest. "But we must be cautious - there is more at work here than a spirit's deception."

"There's so much energy here, it's hard to tell which of these are demons and which are just illusions," Dorian lamented, eyes darting suspiciously between members of the crowd. "Can you tell, Solas?"

The elf shook his head grimly, furrowing his brows as he attempted to focus. "I believed there to simply be one entity here, but this close up, it's far more difficult to parse..." He paused, then shook his head again.

"So, it's either a powerful despair demon and several of its lackeys, or a despair demon so powerful that it _feels_ like a dozen lackeys. Delightful," Dorian muttered, amber eyes still searching the room as though hoping the demon might suddenly reveal itself, preferably in a cascade of shimmering light and perhaps some glitter.

"Yaanos!" Cole called, cupping a hand to his mouth. "I'm going to make it stop!" he promised, even as Dorian and Solas wrestled him back into the crowd. They needn't have bothered, though - none of the room's inhabitants even turned their way, and the Inquisitor did not so much as twitch, giving no indication whatsoever that he'd heard the rogue's shout.

Cole was squirming against them, looking more and more agitated the longer that Yaanos stood unresponsive, and it was all the two mages could do to keep him from bursting out into the center of the room, daggers swinging. Before Dorian could hiss a quiet admonition, he noticed that the energy in the room had shifted, and that all the magisters - or apparitions of magisters, or whatever these creatures truly were - were craning their neck to see something closer to the dais.

"Fasta vass, Cole, _stay put_ ," he pleaded, shaking the young man slightly as he felt the last dregs of his patience draining away. Cole grimaced and grit his teeth, but after a few seconds, he balled his hands into fists at his side and settled down, albeit reluctantly. Giving him one last lingering look, Dorian cautiously released him, then crept back to the front of the crowd to see what it was that had these creatures so excited.

Two men were being escorted into the room, each flanked on either side by unsmiling human guards. Each man was led by a long chain that snaked around his wrists and forearms, and as they approached the front of the dais, the guards holding the other ends of their leads yanked them hard and pulled down, bringing the men to their knees. The burlier of the two dropped to his knees with the smooth resignation of a motion that was unpleasant but familiar, while the other stumbled gracelessly and nearly smacked his head on that pristine marble floor as he lost his balance. The assembled onlookers descended into a hum of amused tittering, and the smaller man righted himself, head hanging miserably.

Dorian edged gingerly around the crowd, one hand lightly gripping Cole's sleeve to tug him along as they strained to creep closer to Yaanos and to get a better look at the men kneeling before the dais. As they pressed forward, the magister pushed himself to his feet and took a few steps forward with the languid, arrogant grace of a predator that has occupied the top of the food chain since time untold. He cleared his throat, bringing the excited buzzing of the crowd to a silence that was eerily, unnaturally abrupt.

"Today, we celebrate the return of my most valuable slave," he announced in Tevene as he waved an arm toward the qunari standing behind him, his voice smooth as the turn of a well-oiled gear and ringing with just as much humanity. "And in the spirit of such a celebration, we shall take part in one of the native traditions of the savage land from which he comes - a process called re-education."

Dorian had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting into a string of obscenities. He walked faster and abandoned subtlety as he shouldered his way through the crowd, holding Cole's sleeve all the tighter to keep from launching a flurry of fiery missiles to leave a smoking hole in the creature's chest. When they'd finally circled close enough, Dorian turned to catch a glimpse of the prisoners' faces and immediately felt his blood run cold.

Battered and bloody though they were, there was no mistaking the face he'd seen in the mirror for decades now, nor that of the man with whom he shared Yaanos' bed, the man that had stood over Yaanos and sworn to protect them both, or strike them down if they failed. Samson's body was emaciated and sickly, his skin so pale it was almost gray. Circles dark as bruises hung beneath those haunted eyes, and jagged growths of red lyrium had sprouted all over, protruding grotesquely from his shoulders, the backs of his hands, his forearms, even one side of his face. The skin that had been ruptured was still bleeding in places, and the flesh looked raw and inflamed, but Samson's face was horribly blank, as though he were barely even present in his own body. The apparation of himself was no easier for Dorian to look at - he bore distinct discoloration on his face and finger-shaped marks on his neck that appeared to be at once bruises and burn marks. The robes he wore were tattered and barely held together across his shoulders; the fabric that should have covered his left arm had been torn away entirely, and the flesh beneath was badly scarred, the Tevene serpent that should have been inked there harshly singed away. Contrary to Samson's stony silence, Dorian noticed that his doppelganger was weeping, his tears tracking uneven black lines of kohl down his face. Behind one of the guards that now stood idly to the side of the dais, Dorian recognized the scowling visage of his own father, arms crossed and brow furrowed in grim approval. He turned away, gritting his teeth.

Yaanos was being tormented by apparitions of his own lovers, and Dorian had a sinking feeling that he knew what was coming next.

"Bovis has returned to me of his own accord, like a proper slave," Virnus crowed, practically preening as he swept those hard emerald eyes over the crowd. Dorian felt those eyes linger upon him for a fraction of a second longer than the others, but the magister moved on without acknowledging him, and he clenched his fists at his side. "After so many years of pretending, of railing against his true nature and causing himself and others no small amount of misery, my prodigal pet has returned."

"Bovis?" Solas murmured beside him, calm voice thrumming with a subtle undercurrent of rage. "Is that--"

"Cow, yes," Dorian seethed through clenched teeth. The bastard had named Yaanos after a fucking _cow_ , after a mindless, graceless beast meant for nothing greater than a life of domestication. Dorian felt his fingertips beginning to spark and smoke, and he inhaled deeply through his nose, willing himself to stillness.

"However... although he has finally seen reason and done what is best, there must still be consequences." Virnus' eyes narrowed, and he could not conceal the glee on his face as he settled back into his seat, crossing his legs at the knee and pulling something from the inner folds of his robes. "These men and your so-called Inquisition were left to suffer in your absence, and have been punished for the foolish decisions _you_ made. Had you never left me, these men may never have become involved with all this, and might have been spared such terrible fates... But alas," he lamented, his voice dropping low with mock sympathy. "Your selfish, stupid mistakes drew them into the storm of misfortune that has followed you everywhere."

Somehow, Yaanos had still not moved. There was no indignant tightening of his muscles, no flaring of his nostrils, no visble tremor in the massive hand that gripped his staff. He scarcely seemed alive, and for a moment, Dorian found himself hoping that perhaps the Yaanos they saw here was only an apparition, after all.

"Nevertheless, a lesson must be learned, Bovis. You've always been quick on the uptake, for a savage," Virnus sneered, idly tracing his fingers along the item he'd retrieved from his robes, a slender metal rod with complex, dwarven-looking sigils engraved along its edge and a smooth button protruding from its end. "You've done well, but we must be certain this won't happen again."

Dorian's futile hope was dashed instantly as the magister pressed the switch on the rod he held with an idle swipe of his thumb, and a loud series of clicks sounded from Yaanos' armor. A quiet hiss and the crackling buzz of lyrium followed, and the pauldrons spread wider over the qunari's shoulders, creating space between the skin and the metal at last, and the thread binding his lips seemed to slacken. Yaanos inhaled deeply through his nose, his chest expanding and his shoulders squaring, and he took a step forward to stand at the magister's side.

"That armor, it's hurting him," Cole whispered in an urgent voice. "It holds him tight, taut, trapped, and it only does what the stick tells it to. We have to stop it--"

"I know, Cole," Dorian promised him, amber eyes hard beneath a harshly furrowed brow. "We're going to stop it, we just need to figure out what's going on first." It brought him no pleasure to wait like this - it took all his self-control to keep from unleashing Cole on the room at large and setting the place on fire - but he knew that a lack of caution could very well mean the loss of not only their souls, but of Yaanos'.

"You need to clean up your mess, Bovis," Virnus drawled, eyes raking lazily over the disheveled men that knelt before him. "And I must know that there shall be no further competition for your loyalty." The room was silent for a moment, balancing on a dagger's edge of tension, and the magister's lips curled up into a cruel smile. 

"Kill them."

For a long second, Yaanos did not move, but it took only Virnus shifting to lean forward slightly in his seat for the qunari to obey, striding forward to stand before the men that had been his lovers. "Start with the templar," the magister instructed, setting the control rod in his lap and steepling his fingers before him.

Yaanos turned toward Samson, and the human finally gave some sign of sentience, shifting to look up into the visor that covered the qunari's face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped, shaking his head with an empty, wheezing chuckle. He gave a limp shrug and set his chains to rattling as he settled back on his haunches, red-rimmed eyes focusing intently on what little he could see of Yaanos' face. His lips settled into a wry smile that was, even now, hopelessly fond, and Dorian felt his own heart tighten so acutely that it left a physical ache.

Samson did not even react when fire roared from Yaanos' outstretched hand. The flames enveloped him, searing away the flesh at his chest and shoulders and singing the hair from his head. The scarlet crystals of red lyrium hissed and popped angrily before cracking and finally shattering, leaving gaping, weeping sores where they had once been. Samson's skin burned black, the fabric of his rags melting to his flesh where it did not burn away entirely, but he did not cry out or writhe away. He stayed motionless, those rich brown eyes locked onto Yaanos' face until they finally burst from his head in a fountain of gore that nearly made Dorian gag. As the torrent of flames trickled to an end, Samson's charred corpse collapsed forward, smudging scorch marks onto the pale marble below.

Dorian thought he might be sick. He wanted desperately to turn away or to dash forward, staff flaring, anything to keep him from watching this gruesome spectacle that had the crowd so enraptured, but he found that he could not tear his eyes away as Yaanos turned toward _his_ trembling apparition.

As that great horned head turned his way, Dorian's doppelganger shook his head and began to beg. "Amatus, _please_ ," he pleaded, tears streaking down his face with renewed vigor. "You don't have to do this, you're more than this." Then he turned his head toward Virnus, those watery eyes beginning to blaze, and he curled his lip as he spat his next words. "Don't make him do this. Kill me yourself if you like, but don't do this to him! You fucking _monster_ , don't you dare make him do this!" When the magister's only response was an impatient sucking of his teeth, the apparition of Dorian turned back to Yaanos, voice breaking. "Please, please don't. Please, _Yaanos_ \--"

Without warning, the qunari swept his staff out before him, bringing its gnarled tip within inches of the apparition's nose before slamming the butt on the ground and hurling his free hand forward to send a coiling, effervescent bolt of energy hurtling from his fist. The impact caught the faux-Dorian square in the chest, and his face crumpled with a terrible disappointment as ice began to creep out from the point of impact. The spell worked quickly, and within seconds the apparition's fingertips were beginning to blacken, even as his face turned blue. His eyes reddened and his nose began to bleed as delicate crystals of ice began to form on his hair and his hands, and that tanned, sunkissed skin began to fade to peach. Slowly, his veins began to rupture as the blood within them froze solid, and it spread dark beneath that paling flesh like some grotesque lightning strike. The apparition may have tried to scream, but only a hoarse hissing noise escaped his parted lips, accompanied by a puff of frozen air. Seconds later, those warm amber eyes glazed over and froze still, and the apparition was left a grisly ice sculpture, kneeling plaintively at the qunari's feet.

Dorian finally turned away, his breathing ragged and harsh as he furiously ground his palms into his eyes to swipe away the tears that burned dimly behind his lids. "This isn't the real him," he whispered furiously, and repeated it beneath his breath like a mantra. "Yaanos never uses fire magic, and he hates ice spells. He would never..."

"He does not know where he is," Solas reminded him in a tone that was surprisingly gentle. "He scarcely remembers himself, and this seems indistinguishable from the waking world to him."

"And that's only going to make it harder for him to forgive himself for this once we escape," Dorian hissed, voice strained and furious. "We need to get him out - _now_. I don't care how many demons there are, I won't stand and watch him suffer this any longer."

As though a leash containing him had suddenly snapped, Cole darted between them, bursting from the crowd. "Yaanos!" he cried again, hands reaching for his daggers. "This isn't real, but it is for you. It hurts, and I'm going to make it stop!"

Once again, Yaanos did not react, merely turning his head slightly toward the sound of the rogue's voice before settling back onto his heels and resuming his eerie stillness. The magister, however, was far more attentive, and he turned his full focus on them for the first time, lips curling into a snarl.

"Enough! You think that you can barge into my domain and sneak about unnoticed? My patience is at an end," he hissed, that handsome face twisting into something fierce and somehow inhuman. "Leave! I will have my prize, and I will not be interrupted!"

"We will not be leaving without our friend," Solas murmured from beside him, low and cautious.

Cole, however, was beyond caution. He threw himself at the magister with a cry of unbridled fury, unsheathing his daggers as he sprinted across the room. "Leave him alone! Give him back!"

Whether out of careless arrogance or sheer surprise, the magister did not move, and Cole's daggers drove deep into his shoulder with a solid thump and the sickening sound of rending flesh. The room was still and silent for the space of a heartbeat, and then Virnus reared back with an unearthly shriek, the sound creating a shockwave that sent Cole and his daggers tumbling backwards.

"You're ruining _everything_ ," wailed the magister as he clutched at his shoulder, and for a split second, Dorian saw his disguise slip.

There was only one demon, and it had been standing before them the entire time.


	8. Chapter 8

As Cole pulled himself out of the messy sprawl he'd been flung into and climbed back to his feet, the magister hunched over slightly, fingers lacing together before him and shoulders heaving. Somehow, the room felt far colder than it had only seconds before.

Dorian gripped his staff tighter in trembling fingers, nostrils flaring as he turned toward Solas with an expression that was simultaneously accusatory and questioning.

"I saw it," Solas confirmed with a slow nod before Dorian could ask, his own eyes fastened intently on Virnus. "The magister is the source. The demon hid its presence well until now."

"We need to kill him," Cole repeated, having reappeared between them sometime in the last few seconds. "I told you we needed to kill him." His voice was low, and Dorian was taken aback by the cold, vicious blaze in the spirit's eyes. "He's hurting Yaanos, and we need to hurt him back."

"No, Cole," Solas chided him gently, taking a few steps toward the demon. "We need to set the Inquisitor free. That need not require the death of another spirit."

As the three men inched closer to the dais, Dorian chanced a glance at Yaanos. Once again, the cumbersome visor he wore made it impossible to determine whether or not he'd even noticed them, and his body was eerily still once again - discipline, Dorian wondered, or the influence of that vile armor?

"Despair," Solas addressed the magister, inclining his head slightly in a respectful acknowledgement. "We enter your domain only in pursuit of our friend. We wish you no harm, only to have him returned to us."

"He is _mine_ ," the creature hissed, the magister's rich voice giving way to something needling and whispery, the pitch alternating between syllables. "I brought him here - I _earned_ him," it insisted, its soft whine now a far cry from the deep, commanding tone it had assumed only minutes prior. "If you take him away, how will I survive?"

"He has given you plenty of despair to feed upon already," Solas reasoned, his voice sharp but not unkind. "You have no further need of him."

The demon turned away, jeweled rings glinting as it raked its hands over its face in seeming indecision. Yaanos stood motionless, his silent, unreadable visage looming above them all. The demon drew closer to him, running its hands along Yaanos' bare chest and reaching up to thoughtfully trace the intricate pattern on his mask with one slender finger.

"But I want him," it whispered at last, craning its neck to fire a challenging glare over its shoulder. "He wants me, too. He doesn't want you, Compassion," it asserted, leering at Cole as it turned around once more and drew itself up to its full height. "He wants to stay here with me, wallowing in the pain I bring him... he doesn't want you to save him, and he doesn't _deserve_ it," the demon asserted, its voice slowly slipping back into the magister's smooth, easy timbre as a smug, satisfied smile split its face.

"That is--" Solas began, only to be interrupted by a staccato of small explosions.

Behind him, Dorian was brandishing his staff, glowing arcane symbols flaring to life before him as a flurry of fiery missiles sprang forth and launched themselves toward the demon. It danced away, managing to avoid the majority of the barrage, but loosed another unearthly wail as the tails of its fine robes went up in flames.

"How _dare_ you?" Dorian demanded, his voice thick. "I won't hear another word of this monster's lies," he hissed, addressing Solas this time.

"Spirits do not lie," the elf argued, but readied his staff nonetheless. "But I agree - it seems that this one will not be moved." He grimaced, fingers beginning to crackle with an electric current. "It is unfortunate, but it seems we will need to resort to force."

The demon had finally torn itself free of its smoldering robe, and it stood before them now, hunched and shaking. "I won't have it," it wailed, voice trembling as though on the verge of tears as its watery gaze darted between the three of them. "I won't let you take him away. I'll kill you all, and then I'll take him for my own!" It drew itself upright, and a fierce, biting breeze began to blow as it continued, its voice rising to a shrill shriek. "I'll use him to cross the Veil, and we'll sow suffering in every corner of your wretched world. My realm will be limitless!" it crowed, the chill wind gusting hard with its final declaration.

"Be cautious," Solas warned the others in a low voice, circling the demon with slow, wary steps. "While we waited and watched its self-indulgent display, it fed on the despair it fostered in the Inquisitor."

"And now it's grown even more powerful," Dorian finished for him, eyes narrowing as his lips thinned into a bitter smile. "Naturally."

It stung him as acutely as a slap across the face: in the end, all their caution had been for naught. They had only wound up buying the demon more time to glut itself on Yaanos' pain, and now it would be even more difficult to pull him from its clutches. The time for patience and caution was at an end.

Seeming to read his mind - and, for all he knew, that was precisely what the lad had done - Cole bellowed a battle cry and charged, and just like that, the room exploded with activity. Dorian began channeling his mana between his hands, feeling the energy pulse hot around his fingers even as the reassuring feeling of Solas' barrier washed over him, the sensation cool and fluid as stepping beneath the fall of a gentle fountain. The apparitions of the magisters around them began to hiss and writhe, the horde buzzing like an angry hive. Their forms were beginning to blur, and their faces shifted like shadows in the firelight, human features giving way to those of ghastly shades and ethereal wraiths and flickering back just as quickly. He had no attention to spare for them, however, focusing instead on honing the fire in his grasp until it hummed. He watched Cole deliver a few glancing blows to the demon's side before it moved back with an indignant screech, seeming to glide across the polished marble until it hovered behind Yaanos.

The mass of energy nestled between his palms had reached its peak, beginning to exert an outward pressure that threatened to sear his skin, but as Dorian prepared to launch it in the demon's direction, he caught the reflection of firelight off a familiar-looking trinket that had appeared in its hand once more and saw its mouth forming words that were nearly inaudible over the roar of fire in his hands. A cry of consternation left his own lips seconds before Yaanos' shoulder collided with his collarbone. His spell flew from his hands as he was bowled over, cutting through the icy trail the qunari's Fade-step had left in his wake and missing the demon entirely, instead scattering a horde of shades behind it, reducing several to smoldering, bubbling piles of gray-green sludge and sending an exquisite tapestry that hung behind them up in flames.

"Yaanos--" he choked out, grateful for the grip he'd managed to maintain on his staff as he clung to it to drag himself upright once again, scrambling to his feet and trying to put some distance between himself and his lover. Were it not for Solas' barrier, Dorian was confident that the impact may have cracked a bone or two. Now that the barrier had been shattered, however, he had nothing to defend him from the spell he saw Yaanos conjuring. He cursed beneath his breath, then began to furiously summon his own barrier. It sprung up mere seconds before a cone of ice came whistling from Yaanos' staff, and he grit his teeth as he attempted to funnel more magic into his barrier to keep it from dissipating under the Vashoth's onslaught.

"Someone distract him," he called to anyone who would listen, voice strained. "I can't keep this up much longer!" His speciality had never been defensive magic, but he had no desire to hurt Yaanos, and his necromancy was of little use in the Fade.

"It's controlling him," Solas informed him rather unnecessarily as he slammed his staff onto the floor, sending Yaanos' knees buckling as though a great weight had fallen onto his shoulders. Mercifully, the steady stream of ice magic broke off as Yaanos strained to push himself upright once more, and Dorian took the opportunity to slip behind the qunari as he turned toward Solas. "The Inquisitor cannot see us for who we are, and as long as he believes the demon to be his master, he will obey him."

Despair, meanwhile, had drawn closer, once-green eyes gleaming the bright blue of lyrium as it watched Yaanos advance on Solas, the Vashoth's staff glowing golden as a familiar blade of energy grew from its tip. Cole was nowhere to be seen, but Dorian couldn't spare the rogue much worry, busy as he was laying down mine after inferno mine in the demon's path and trying to keep an eye on Yaanos as he did. He watched sweat beading on Solas' scalp as his brows furrowed with the effort of maintaining his barrier while Yaanos swung at it - the spirit magic in his arcane blade cleaved through the magical shield as though it were parchment, and Dorian knew that was precisely why Yaanos had chosen it. Dorian turned away with a desperate little groan just as Solas was attempting to summon another force spell, presumably to blast Yaanos away from him or to pin him to the ground once more.

He'd felt his runes beginning to trigger as the demon wandered over them, too engrossed in the pitched battle between the mortals to pay attention to its surroundings, and Dorian couldn't help the victorious smirk that tugged at his lips. Enraged, it screamed as the glyphs burst to life beneath its feet, catching its trousers and belts aflame. It stumbled back, knocking away a few wraiths and lighting them on fire as it did, then took to the air and hurtled toward the other end of the room, holding its hands to its face. Dorian's triumph was short-lived, however - within moments, the flames had extinguished themselves, leaving the magister's clothing a singed, tattered mess, but the creature itself looking largely unharmed. It turned toward Dorian and shrieked once more, the sound equal parts anguish and rage.

"Fasta vass," he whispered, ducking down to sprint as far from the demon as he could.

"Bovis, kill _that one_!" it howled with a sweep of its arm in Dorian's direction. Without hesitation, Yaanos stepped back from where he'd held Solas pinned, the ethereal blade of his staff biting into the enchanted wood of the elf's, and turned to face Dorian.

Solas dropped to one knee, clearly exhausted and off-balance as the tremendous weight pushing him back disappeared, but he flung a hand out to cast a flimsy, shimmering barrier over Dorian as the qunari stalked toward him with a silent, effortless menace. Both men knew it would do little good in the face of Yaanos' single-minded pursuit and seemingly limitless supply of mana, especially when both were struggling to keep from truly harming him, but Dorian appreciated the gesture.

Dorian held his staff up before him, screwing his eyes shut as he attempted once more to strengthen the barrier that protected him. It was a futile effort, but he needed to focus on _something_. If this was how he was going to go, he'd rather not see it, and so he kept his eyes shut and prayed.

"I won't let you hurt anyone else," Cole cried from somewhere ahead, and no sooner had Dorian glanced up than Cole materialized at Despair's back, plunging his daggers deep into its shoulderblades. The demon screeched once more, the sound sending earsplitting shockwaves pulsing through the room and even giving Yaanos pause. Every head in the room turned towards the creature as it collapsed to its knees, shuddering and whimpering as Cole bore down on it.

In the split second it took Cole to pull his daggers free and hop away, the demon tossed its head back and screamed, and a sudden wave of frigid air burst from it as the form of the magister seemed to melt away, leaving a haggard-looking waif of a creature in its place. The demon was wrapped in wispy robes that hung limply over its bony shoulders and hunched back, and an eerie mist crept endlessly from its inner folds, leaving a delicate trail of frost over every surface it touched. Yaanos tossed his head, stitched lips straining to form words as he turned towards the creature he had thought to be his master, clearly struggling to come to terms with what he was seeing.

Amidst the confusion, Dorian watched a misty haze shoot across the room, and Solas emerged from his Fade-step directly beside the demon, easily plucking the control rod from its gnarled fingers. It swiped at him and screeched again, rising to its feet, but the elf deftly maneuvered out of its reach and swept his staff outward to send a single bolt of electric energy arcing in its direction. The bolt connected, and the demon reeled backward, hissing and raising itself into the air.

There was a moment's hesitation as Solas looked at Yaanos, and Dorian watched a spasm of pain pass over the elf's face before his expression hardened into something grim and he closed his fist around the rod he held. There was a loud click, and the switch on the apparatus shifted back to its original position.

Without a sound, Yaanos snapped abruptly upright, his posture rigid as his armor forced his arms to his sides, tightened around his throat, and pulled his lips shut tight. The chains dangling from his neckpiece seemed to come alive, snaking around his chest and fastening themselves to the tops of his greaves to lock him firmly in place. For a few seconds, there was only the soft humming of the lyrium doing its work, and the loud clatter of Yaanos' staff falling from his grip as he stood stock-still, paralyzed by the armor that wrapped tight around his entire upper body.

"Solas, what are you _doing_?" Dorian demanded, looking on in horror as a few crackles of lyrium-blue electricity rolled from the pauldrons down Yaanos' arms, leaving his biceps seizing and his clenched fists trembling almost imperceptibly.

"It's the only way to keep us from injuring him, or him from injuring us," Solas explained, looking no happier than Dorian as he stowed the control rod in his belt. "He is confused, but Despair still commands him. We cannot hope to win if we are fighting both of them at once, and if we are preoccupied with keeping him safe."

Dorian opened his mouth to argue, but a curse slipped between his lips instead as he dove out of the path of a sharpened bolt of ice that Despair had hurled in his direction. With a resounding crash, the ice shattered on the marble where he'd stood only a second before, and he clambered to his feet, holding the right side of his abdomen with a wince and wishing he'd taken the time to have Solas or Yaanos teach him how to use that Fade-step technique. As it was, he was certain his graceless leap had bruised a rib or two and jammed his shoulder, but he'd have time to fret about that later.

"The armor's hurting him," Cole echoed in protest from the demon's other side, calling out to draw its attention then disappearing into the shadows when it whirled around to face him. The demon turned this way and that, raining down razor-sharp gales of hail and snow on apparition and shade alike as it searched for him. A dense, fistlike projectile of stone sailed through the air and pummeled it directly in the square of its back, sending it careening into one of the pillars and crumpling to the ground, and Dorian turned to catch a knowing nod from Solas. "We have to end this, so we can make it stop hurting," Cole murmured, his voice sounding from directly behind Dorian's ear and nearly sending the altus pitching forward in alarm.

"Kaffas, Cole, don't _do_ that," he scowled, whipping his staff toward the demon that was struggling to right itself. "Go scare the life out of the _demon_ , not me." Cole slipped away without so much as a whisper to mark his departure, and Dorian focused all his attention inward, mind working furiously as he felt his magic swelling within him. He watched Despair rocket off the ground with an indignant screech, smoothly flying out of Cole's reach as the young rogue leapt from the shadows, daggers flashing. To his left, Solas was frowning severely as the force spells that he fired from his staff missed their mark again and again, and the demon screamed at him as it unleashed a howling torrent of biting ice and snow in his direction. Just in time, Dorian's wall of flame roared to life a few feet from Solas' face, and the cone of ice melted into a harmless puddle at the elf's feet as the wall began to move, creeping toward the demon as its flames licked ever higher, fueled by the oxygen in the room and the magic that Dorian steadily channeled into it.

They went toe-to-toe like that for a while, trading glancing blows and managing to protect themselves from the worst of the demon's attacks, but after several long minutes, the mages and the rogue were winded, and Despair was still largely unharmed and brimming with furious indignation. The creature was just too damnably fast - Solas was hesitant to use his ice magic on it for fear that he might strengthen it, but his force magic was having trouble connecting, and the demon made certain to stay far from the ground, where Cole might be able to sink his daggers into it. For Dorian's part, he'd been preoccupied with protecting Yaanos and maintaining his wall of fire, which he'd maneuvered into a ring that was steadily pushing outward to ward away the shades and wraiths that had grown more agitated, and were now clamoring to get at the vulnerable mages in the center of the room.

Dorian tossed his head toward Solas, sweat pouring down his back and stinging at his eyes as he held his hands out and his staff aloft. "This isn't bloody working!" Solas made some sort of indignant retort, but the words were drowned out by the roar of fire and the rush of blood in Dorian's ears. "Look, I have an idea, but I'll need some coverage!" he bellowed, gasping deep to catch his breath. "Get the blasted demon on the ground, and keep the shades off me for just a minute or two!" he instructed. "And protect Yaanos!"

Once he heard something that sounded like affirmation from Solas and a helpful cry from Cole, he let his wall of flames gutter out and burn down into nothing. The fires extinguished with a soft hiss, and a blood-curdling shriek of triumph rose up from the creatures crowded behind it.

All hell broke loose.

The shades and wraiths slithered into the room, swarming over them like insects, and the demon keened in delight above them, seeming to sense that they'd all grown weary. Dorian felt the airy forms of the wraiths drift over him, stirring his robes like a dry breeze and leaving soft, echoing whispers in their wake, and the dry, grasping claws of the shades snapped shut inches from his nose as they found themselves unable to penetrate the barrier Solas had cast only an instant before. Releasing a long, shaky breath, Dorian pressed his free hand to the underside of his forearm, tracing tight patterns into the dusky skin there with the pads of this thumb and forefinger. He left no mark, but seemed instead to be sketching out an intricate sigil from memory, and his lips moved soundlessly as he worked through complex algorithms in his head.

On either side of him, Cole and Solas were struggling to give him the time he'd asked for. The spirit of Compassion was a blonde blur, daggers rending easily through shade after shade, effortlessly slaughtering any that dared to come within arm's reach of Yaanos and slipping into the shadows to rebuff any that approached Dorian from behind. Solas had his hands full keeping Despair occupied, lightning arcing from demon to wraith to elaborate chandelier and back even as he forced more mana into the barriers protecting himself and Dorian from the constant battering of the shades. The demon was wailing and hammering him with ice spell after ice spell, and his barrier flickered and buckled but miraculously held firm. Still, every so often the elf's focus would slip, and Dorian watched him grimace as a shard of ice would strike true and lodge itself in his forearm or his staff.

Dorian bit back a bitter laugh as he found himself wishing that Yaanos were fighting at their side - the Vashoth's destructive magic needed some work, but he was the best at barrier magic of any of them, and he soaked up damage like a sponge did water, always emerging from scuffles with spades of energy to spare and nary a scratch on him, despite often fighting back-to-back with Cassandra on the front lines.

As his fingers worked furiously and the rich thrum of magic swelled in his chest, Dorian thought of Yaanos. He thought of Yaanos fighting, of his easy smile as he cast, eager and joyous in battle and shining with a reluctant pride that he almost never allowed himself whenever a difficult enemy fell, or when he'd managed to shield someone from a dangerous blow, either with a well-timed barrier or his own body. He thought of the way that Yaanos touched him, how gently those giant hands caressed his face, how they ran along his shoulders and the small of his back with a delicate wonder akin to worship and fit tight around his waist like a promise. He thought of how Yaanos' voice had cracked as he asked Hawke to cover their retreat from the Fade, and how he'd fallen to his knees and _wept_ as they'd emerged onto the battlements at Adamant once more to see rows of dead soldiers arranged solmenly before a hasty pyre.

He turned his head minutely to look at the man that stood beside him, bound and collared and silent in his suffering. The real Yaanos, the man he knew and had come to love, was nothing like the mindless beast that wretched magister had tried to convince him he was, and Dorian would be damned if he'd allow anyone to believe otherwise for even a moment longer.

"Ground the bloody thing!" he bellowed, brows furrowing as he felt his magic flaring brilliantly, the power seeming to spill from his very pores. Solas cried out wordlessly as he hurled another mighty stonefist at the demon's front. Despair did not bother to dodge the blow, too distracted by Cole, who had used the momentum of his sprint and his remarkable lower body strength to run along a pillar and launch himself at the demon with a hoarse cry. Cole's daggers sunk deep into Despair's leg, and the demon struggled violently to stay airborne until Solas' spell connected solidly with its chest, knocking the fight out of it and sending both it and Cole toppling to the ground.

With a desperate cry of his own, Dorian rotated one hand and twirled his staff in the opposite direction with the other, sending a mighty wave of magic rushing from him in a vast wave. The air in the room grew still and stagnant and, a second later, seemed to shatter before their very eyes. The shades and wraiths all moved sluggishly, their movements impeded by some invisible force, and the demon writhed in agony, its movements muted and incredibly slow, as though the air it clawed at were viscous and thick. Cole rolled back and sprung to his feet easily, completely unhindered by Dorian's spell, and Solas drew closer with one brow raised in a wry sort of admiration.

"Very impressive," he murmured, short of breath as he readied a crackling burst of electricity at the tip of his staff.

"Yes, I know," Dorian wheezed, trying to ignore the stitch in his side and resisting the urge to double over. The Fade augmented the abilities of mages, but demons were stronger here, as well, and such a tremendous Haste spell had taken quite a lot out of him. Still, he steadied himself on his staff for a moment before leveling it at the demon, which had finally crawled to its knees.

He shared a silent look with Solas, then with Cole, who nodded grimly. As one, the three attacked - Dorian slammed his staff on the ground and drove his fist upward, setting the creature aflame, even as Cole plunged his knives into the creature's back and Solas cloaked the blade of his staff in electricity and thrust the point deep into its chest. 

Dorian expected the creature to perish with some sort of spectacle, perhaps to explode into a gory mess and loose one final, furious scream, but it simply... died. There was a soft, wheezing wail, and then the demon collapsed. Seconds later, its body began to disintegrate into a fine green mist, chunks of it seeming to burn away before they disappeared entirely. Quietly, the grisly corpses of the Samson and Dorian apparitions disappeared in the same way, leaving little more than a sickly green mist to mark where they had been. The lesser demons under Despair's command all scattered, fleeing into the distance as the golden, gaudy furnishings of the magister's parlor faded away, leaving them alone with Yaanos on the neatly-cobbled streets of Tevinter.

Panting lightly, Solas retrieved the control rod from his belt and pressed the switch once more before tossing it to the ground. The soft hydraulic hiss of Yaanos' armor drowned out the gentle clinking of the rod as it rolled away. The chains crisscrossing the Vashoth's torso slowly shrunk back to normal length, separating from Yaanos' greaves to hang limply from his neckpiece, and his pauldrons widened around his shoulders and his throat as the laces binding his lips shut loosened visibly once more.

"Yaanos, it's over," Dorian announced, his voice gentle and overflowing with relief as he stepped closer, resting a shaking hand on one thick bicep. "We're here, and we can go home now."

Their victory couldn't have come at a better time. Cole was breathless and flushed, looking half-dead and desperate, and even Solas was visibly winded, leaning heavily on his staff and watching the Inquisitor with narrowed, cautious eyes. Dorian, meanwhile, was absolutely sick of the Fade, and was more than ready to see Yaanos again - the _real_ Yaanos. He was ready for things to go back to normal, or as normal as they ever were when one was fighting a deranged undead darkspawn magister for the safety of the world. 

As the seconds stretched into minutes, however, the smile that had begun to form on Dorian's lips faded away. Yaanos' armor had not yet disappeared with the rest of the demon's handiwork, and the qunari was still utterly, unnervingly still.

"Solas, what's going on?" Dorian asked after a few moments longer, panic edging into his voice as he gave Yaanos' arm a light squeeze. "Why is he just... standing here? Why won't he say anything?"

Solas sighed then, disappointment and a deep sorrow etched into the lines of his narrow face. "It is as I feared. The demon was right, Dorian," he explained, voice low. Cole raked his hands through his hair in distress, and now Dorian understood why it was that the spirit had looked so distraught even after they'd slain the demon.

"Don't you dare," he warned, voice soft and scratchy as he fought valiantly to keep it from breaking. "No, I won't hear it - we saved him, and now it's time for us to bring him back with us and let the man be _happy_ again."

"If we bring him back like this, he will be no different," Solas explained with a shake of his head. "He will fall prey to another demon, and all this will have been for nothing."

Dorian rounded on him then, flames crackling to life at his fingers as he balled them into fists at his side. "What are you trying to say? That Yaanos actually--"

Solas nodded solemnly, answering the question he couldn't bring himself to ask. "The Inquisitor wishes to stay here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm garbage at combat, so this took a shamefully long time, and for that, I apologize. Thank you to those precious, patient few that have been sticking with me this long - the fic’s almost done, and then I promise I’ll do something sappy/smutty to recover from all the angst and, ugh, PLOT.


End file.
